


Dawn Chorus

by Mackem



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Deepthroating, Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sleepy Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 02:39:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1209661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mackem/pseuds/Mackem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is one particular thing that is always guaranteed to wake his friend in the absolute best of moods. He confessed his love of waking to the feel of a mouth around his prick one night, a few years past, whilst most of the way through a bottle of brandy; Aramis seized upon it with interest, and woke him that way the very next day. Porthos was praising God before his eyes were even open.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dawn Chorus

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this to fill a [fantastic prompt](http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/774.html?thread=8966#cmt8966%20) on the [Musketeers Kink Meme](http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/), which has become one of my new favourite places in the world. The prompt is: 
> 
> _Porthos really likes being woken up by Aramis' mouth on his cock. Aramis is generally pretty happy to oblige._
> 
> I just couldn't help myself. Beta provided by the ever-fabulous [Dairyme](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dairyme), any mistakes left are my own!

Dawn has not quite broken when Aramis awakes.

People have previously expressed surprise that he is an early riser. Aramis can see why they may come to the conclusion that he prefers to sleep late; while he does not _require_ alcohol to ease a partner into his bed, he prefers to be merry whilst he courts. The gift of fine wine has helped turn many a person’s head, and Aramis is always happy to drink his share. Maybe his lovers assume he would prefer to sleep in, and ward off the effects of one too many glasses.

Maybe his lovers have not considered the dangers of sleeping through the arrival of, say, an enraged spouse. Or an overprotective father. Or, once, a nun. Although his hasty hiding place beneath his partner’s bed had not been the ideal spot from which to listen - the dust had left him desperately pressing his handkerchief over his face lest he be discovered through an ill-timed sneeze - the lesson itself had been interesting. To him, at least; his lady-friend had been in dire need of something to entertain her once the bride of Christ took her leave. Luckily, Aramis considers himself something of an expert in the field of ‘entertainment’.

There is wisdom, then, in sleeping light and rising early. More than wisdom, even; Aramis prefers to live life to the fullest, and such a thing is easiest when one is awake for the experience.

All this is what he tells himself, when the wretched sparrows that have made their nest in the eaves of Porthos’ lodgings chirp him from his sleep before sunrise.

He screws his eyes shut with a groan. This happens every time he sleeps here, and yet it is so easily forgotten with wine sloshing around his stomach and Porthos’ lips on his own, tempting him to spend the night. His filthy, whispered promises of a good, hard fuck almost never include the words, “And when we are finally spent, you’ll wake before the sun rises, cursing the dawn chorus.”

There is no point attempting to go back to sleep; he knows this from previous attempts, all of which ended with him giving up in the face of avian conversation. Aramis reluctantly rubs sleep from his eyes and pictures wringing feathered necks while Porthos slumbers on, undisturbed by the veritable concert of birdsong drifting from the rafters. 

Not for the first time, he considers taking action against these winged menaces. Shooting them is always a possibility; it may even prove to be acceptable target practice. And yet somehow, he suspects that firing his pistol into the roof of a lodging house first thing in the morning may end badly for him. He can picture all too easily the swarm of guards that would ensue, and the expression of fury that Treville would wear when he discovered that one of his most seasoned soldiers raised arms against a songbird. The musketeers likely do not need a reputation as crazed, sleep-deprived sparrow-killers.

The birdsong is incessant. He lifts his pillow to smother his face with it and considers fetching his pistol regardless.

Beside him, Porthos lets out a snore. Aramis emerges from his pillow to aim an incredulous look at him. If Aramis can be roused from sleep at the slightest of noises, Porthos is quite the opposite. It is infuriating. The wretched man can sleep through anything.

Well…

Not quite _anything_. 

There is one particular thing that is always guaranteed to wake his friend in the absolute best of moods. He confessed his love of waking to the feel of a mouth around his prick one night, a few years past, whilst most of the way through a bottle of brandy; Aramis seized upon it with interest, and woke him that way the very next day. Porthos was praising God before his eyes were even open. It was truly beautiful to behold.

It has proved no less beautiful every time since. Aramis always rejoices in his reaction, in the way that he is able to take Porthos from unconsciousness to teetering on the precipice of orgasm with nothing more than his mouth. It is almost as much of a thrill to Aramis as it is to his lucky recipient. There is something wonderfully intoxicating about the act; seeing his partner taken from serene rest to desperate need before he even fully wakes always leaves Aramis hard.

And here he is, awake, and here Porthos is, asleep...

“If I am to be awoken before I am ready,” Aramis tells him with a wicked grin, “then so are you, my friend.”

He stretches, and rolls onto his stomach. Perhaps, given the fact that he is only awake due to Porthos’ sparrows, he should awaken him with something rather less indulgent than he is thinking, but Aramis is a cheerful soul. He is always willing to spread a little joy in the world, especially where it comes to Porthos.

He is also a quick learner. The first time the birds had roused him he had disturbed Porthos with a frustrated elbow to the gut, and had received a split lip for his efforts as his sleeping companion reacted instinctively. Sincere, albeit amused, apologies had soon followed, once Porthos awoke, but the lesson had been learned.

There are far better ways to wake him. 

He shoves the bedclothes aside and gazes at Porthos, tired eyes drinking him in. They both sleep nude, so there is nothing to obstruct his ogling. Porthos lies in a sprawl, limbs spreading to fill all available room - Aramis often awakes with an arm or leg slung casually across him - and his face is slack in sleep, the usual good-humoured grin nowhere to be seen. There is no tension in his body, his muscles relaxed. His chest rises and falls softly, the low sound oddly relaxing as Aramis stifles a yawn.

His gaze shifts down from his chest, and Aramis grins. Morning, it seems, is glorious.

It is not as if Aramis himself isn’t half-hard. His dick brushes the mattress as he props himself up on his elbows, the friction just this side of teasing, but it is easy enough to ignore. 

Porthos’ prick, however, is another matter.

Aramis grins and edges his way down the bed. He clambers atop Porthos’ legs, humming to himself. It isn’t nearly enough to wake Porthos, he knows from experience. 

Aramis lowers his head and licks a wet stripe up the length of Porthos’ cock. As he reaches the tip he swirls his tongue, resisting the urge to just take Porthos into his mouth and forcibly wrest him from sleep. It is _much_ more enjoyable to guide him slowly into the waking world. 

His tongue moves slowly over Porthos, savouring every moment with brief licks. He traces over his balls, noses at the crease of his thighs, presses wet kisses over every inch of his manhood. By the time he has moved on to suck the head of his cock between his lips, Porthos is shifting, stirring slowly. His hips are first to awaken; they rock into the touch of Aramis’ mouth of their own volition. Aramis laughs, and pins them to the bed with firm hands. 

Porthos groans when Aramis bobs his head down the length of his cock, the sound sleepy and low and music to Aramis’ ears. Music accompanied by ceaseless twittering from the rafters, but no worse for it. 

He sucks lightly, rises up until his mouth is empty, and parts slick lips to blow oh-so-teasingly across the head of Porthos’ cock. A shiver and another groan are his reward. He indulges in a quick lap of his tongue at the head to savour the taste of Porthos’ growing excitement before he takes his length into his mouth once more.

A few busy minutes later, when Aramis is almost lost in his devoted attention to Porthos’ firm cock, a hand tangles in his hair. He looks along the planes of Porthos’ body to see he is being watched through heavy-lidded eyes. Porthos wears a lazy smile, awake at last. In lieu of greeting, his nails scratch at Aramis’ scalp, soft and teasing; Porthos is well aware that this is one of Aramis’ weaknesses. He shivers and finds his own hips rocking needily, his dick growing ever more firm. His reaction does not go unnoticed; Porthos laughs softly, and pointedly repeats the action to hear him groan.

Aramis can restrain himself no longer, not while Porthos’ smile is edging on smug. He redoubles his efforts and takes his cock further into his mouth, inching his way down until his lips meet the taut flesh of Porthos’ belly. It is worth the burn in his throat when Porthos moans his name, the sound wrecked and intoxicating and flooding immediately to his prick. Porthos pulls his legs free, settles his feet flat on the mattress and brings his knees up, seeking leverage. Aramis steadies his breathing as Porthos tangles both hands in his hair and fucks into his mouth, unashamedly rough and greedy.

It does not take long for Porthos to spill into ecstasy. This is always how it goes, when Aramis gets the urge to wake Porthos this way; he teases, slow and delicate, until Porthos is awake and wound up enough to _use_ him, and his own prick is left hard and leaking. He swallows again and again as Porthos pushes ruthlessly into his mouth, hissing filth. “God above, Aramis, I love it when you do this,” he growls, fingers tight in Aramis’ hair as he drags him closer. “Love the feel of you around me - you’re so good, you’re _perfect_!”

Aramis hums his agreement, and Porthos shouts as he climaxes, his prick in Aramis’ throat. His fingers twine in Aramis’ hair, tight enough to hurt; Aramis cannot help but moan his appreciation. 

Aramis is a gentleman, so he swallows as much he can, and cleans up what he cannot with long licks of his tongue. Porthos is panting when he finally pulls away, one hand absently stroking Aramis’ hair and the other curled possessively at the back of his neck. His eyes are sparkling despite the early hour, fixed on Aramis as he gives Porthos a dry grin. “Good morning,” Aramis says, and if his voice is a little hoarse, Porthos does not comment. Porthos is also a gentleman, when it suits him.

“Mmm,” Porthos murmurs. His legs fall to the bed, and he gives Aramis’ hair a pointed pull. He smiles knowingly as Aramis groans at the hot flood of desire the gesture sends to his cock. “C’mere,” he says.

“My, so eloquent,” Aramis chuckles. He crawls up the length of Porthos’ body, relishing the slick drag of his prick against sleep-warmed skin, and hovers over him, resting his hands either side of his head. Porthos leans up to kiss him, lazy and fond and seemingly unperturbed by the taste of himself in Aramis’ mouth.

“I bloody love waking up like that,” Porthos murmurs with a grin when he pulls away. Aramis shifts, straddling Porthos’ hips and not bothering to hide his smug smile. It dissolves into a gasp as a hand snakes between them to wrap around Aramis’ dick, thumb teasing pre-come around the head. Aramis whines, rocking immediately into his touch. “You’re amazing, do you know that?” Porthos asks, his hand teasing idly along the length of his cock.

“It _has_ been said,” Aramis allows, managing a modest smile. “Personally, I won’t believe a word of it until everybody in France has provided confirmation. I’m sure that day won’t be too long in coming.”

“You’re lucky you wear conceited well,” Porthos snorts. His hand moves on Aramis with long, slow strokes, designed to tease. He bites his lip. Porthos grins at him. “What do you need?” he asks, his voice a low rumble. Aramis dips lower to kiss him again.

“Just this,” he murmurs against his lips. “Just your hand. Harder, please, and faster?”

“Whatever you wish,” Porthos says, and dutifully quickens his hand around his length. Aramis rocks into the curl of his fingers, groaning shamelessly and delighting in the way Porthos keeps his eyes focussed on him. Aramis loves an audience, revels in the attention; it sends a stab of lust through him, flooding to his dick as Porthos tightens his hand and twists his wrist at the apex of every stroke.

He spills over Porthos’ chest when he comes with a loud cry. He sprawls atop his friend as he recovers, perversely pleased at the feel of his seed between them. Porthos merely chuckles, and settles his hand on his arse.

After a moment, Aramis tips himself back onto the mattress with a satisfied groan, sprawling beside his friend with a smirk. “Very nice,” he says, and grins as Porthos scoffs.

“Is that the best you can do? You bastard,” he says, and nudges him sharply in the ribs as Aramis laughs. “I’d take offence at that, if you hadn’t woken me with my dick in your mouth.”

“But I did,” Aramis says, stretching happily.

“But you did,” agrees Porthos, and rolls onto his side to give Aramis a fond look. “And I thank you for it.” 

Aramis settles one arm beneath his head, and waves the other one dismissively. “No thanks required.”

“Indulging me like that will always require thanks. You know how much I love it,” Porthos says. He settles a hand on Aramis’ belly, fingers splayed and stroking lightly despite the sticky come drying on his skin. Aramis preens, easily catching the affection underlying his touch and his fond words. “What did I do to deserve such an awakening?”

“Nothing at all,” Aramis says, staring at the ceiling. The damn birds are _still_ chirping. 

Porthos laughs. “Ah, then you want something! I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Would I really be so crass as to attempt to get in your good books with sexual favours, merely because I want something from you?” Aramis asks with a chuckle. 

Porthos is already grinning. “Just tell me what you want, will you?”

“Well, since you asked,” Aramis murmurs, as if it is only just occurring to him, “I would rather like a guarantee that next time we decide to spend the night together, we do so at _my_ lodgings.”

Porthos’ eyebrows draw together in a bemused frown. “Is that all?”

“That is all I want,” Aramis assures him. “Unless…”

“Yes?” Porthos asks, laughing softly. 

Aramis smiles to himself as, above them, the squawking of birds rings out. “How would you feel about roast sparrow for breakfast?”


End file.
